


Angel's Kisses

by groovyhedgehog (GroovyHedgehog)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Dean watches Back to the Future, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Freckles, Kissing, M/M, Motel room, angel's kisses, cold ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroovyHedgehog/pseuds/groovyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freckles aren't where angels have kissed but where angels are supposed to kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel's Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I needed freckles and kissing and just hjkdsiodsa I WROTE THIS OKAY. Italicizing the shit out of this thing. Just warning you. I like italicizing even though it's very unhealthy for my writing.

Dean pops the top off his fifth Budweiser and takes a swig. The TV’s on a few feet away, casting flickering images across the dark room. Sam’s off doing research for Bobby’s latest call. Seems like a dead end but Sam insisted and left Dean with Cas in their jungle-themed budget rent motel room watching old reruns of _Back to the Future._ Dean’s force-feeding the classics to Cas, since the angel never gets those references, and for some god damn reason Dean is often forced to reference away. Fucking time traveling angels screwing them over every two seconds.  
  
There’s just one thing. Cas has been staring at him, which isn’t _that_ odd because Cas tends to stare at him (the little weirdo, it makes Dean uncomfortable), but this is ridiculous. Cas has been staring for about an hour straight instead of watching Marty’s time warping adventures. His gaze is like ice water trickling over his face and neck and shoulders and god _fucking_ damnit hasn’t Cas been human long enough to stop the visual molesting? Dean can’t take it anymore. Cas’ stare is slipping under his skin and the angel’s been inching closer this whole time. Now they’re only inches apart on the couch and Cas’ forehead wrinkles impossibly in concentration. What’s so damn interesting about his face?  
  
 _“What?”_ Dean demands, glancing to the side. “What the hell are you staring at?”  
  
“I’ve never kissed you,” Cas replies in his usual bewildered-laced monotone.  
  
“Uhh,” Dean arches an eyebrow. “Yeah. So?”  
  
“Are those from Anna?”  
  
“The fuck, Cas?”  
  
Cas leans closer still and Dean tastes the angel’s breath on his lips; it’s laced with alcohol like his own. His heart pounds in his ears but fuck if he’s going to give up his seat. He’s been running for the last thirty-six hours straight and if he wants to sit on the fucking couch and have a few beers and watch _Back to the Future_ he’s not going to let Cas’ lack of the personal space concept stop it. He sits his ground and stares back, his own eyebrows rising in challenge to say _spit it out or you’re sitting on the floor._  
  
“No, those aren’t from Anna. You had them when we first met.” The angel’s eyes narrow as he cocks his head curiously and scrutinizes Dean’s face.  
  
“Seriously, Cas, what the—”  
  
“Freckles,” Cas says like Dean should have known all along. Dean frowns. “Why do they call them ‘angel’s kisses’? It’s very misleading. Humans are strange.”  
  
“You’re telling me.” Dean sighs and leans back, but Cas does the unexpected and grips Dean’s shoulder. Their eyes snap together like rubber bands stretched too thin and Dean barely remembers to breathe. Touching is new. They don’t touch. Touching is—  
  
“Wait,” Cas murmurs, his voice suddenly a whisper, melting into the sound of the delorean warping through time again. Dean waits.  
  
And waits.  
  
Cas brushes his lips over a dusting of freckles on Dean’s cheek and fuck Dean’s trying not to let his heart out through his throat.  
  
“Cas,” he manages, his voice a croak in the dark. “Can you _be any more gay?”_  
  
“Yes,” Cas replies matter-of-factly and doesn’t pull away. The angel’s lips mark tiny kisses across Dean’s face, following freckle after freckle and Dean can’t breathe anymore. He’s suffocating and god he’d never thought he’d die like this. Time is stretching thinner, thinner, like the air around him and Cas pulls away only when he realizes Dean is half gasping for air. “Dean,” he takes Dean’s face in his hands and their eyes snap together like they always seem to do. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Not how you touch another guy, Cas,” Dean breathes, but just barely.  
  
“It isn’t?”  
  
Dean just stares and Cas stares and Dean can’t say anything because the beers are weighing heavily in his mind and the angel’s warmth is so _nice_ (fuck, he hadn’t expected that) and how many times has he already pushed away the one thing that makes him feel _right?_  
  
“I think,” Cas interrupts his thoughts. “You’re wrong.” Dean just stares incredulously because what fucked up logic is churning in the angel’s head now? “I think I figured it out.”  
  
“What?” Dean can’t help himself.  
  
“Why humans call them ‘angel's kisses.’”  
  
Dean just continues to stare in disbelief.  
  
“I think that’s where we’re supposed to kiss.”  
  
And there’s no way Dean can convince Cas otherwise at this point because suddenly the angel has him pinned down in the couch cushions and he’s drowning in burning, stinging kisses like needles injecting something, some wonderful something under his skin and into his bloodstream.


End file.
